Small Favors
by magdalena maria
Summary: No good deed goes unrewarded, no matter how much Arthur might wish it otherwise with a soupcon of Highlander in the Coda, if you look for it.


_**(Nothing you recognize belongs to me)**_

_**~Early spring, before the battle at Baden Hill~**_

"Jols, man, I can finish here. Go find yer bed." Bors laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder as Jols sneezed for the third time in as many minutes. "Yer sick and miserable; you make me miserable looking at you."

Jols coughed, cleared his throat noisily and spat onto the muddy, hay-strewn stable floor. "I'm fine." He replied hoarsely.

Bors reached for the partially mended bridle in the other man's hand. "Yer burnin' with fever. Get out or I'll throw you in the water trough, that'll cool you." He snorted with laughter at his own wit, and shouted for his son. "Gilly!"

Jols winced as the tiny fiend in residence behind his eyes, aggravated by the shout echoing through his ears, promptly redoubled efforts to hammer a passage through his skull.

"Gilly." Bors repeated ,as the boy's dirt-smutched face appeared around the side of the closest stall. "Go find Dag; you know where he's likely to be. Tell him he's needed in Jols' quarters." He ran a heavy hand over the boy's untidy shock of black hair with rough affection. "G'wan, now and no stopping along the way, that's my boy."

Jols never did quite recall how he found his quarters that morning, much less his bed, but some time later he woke to find Dagonet gently shaking his shoulder."Jols. Jols, sit up and drink this."

"Mmph." Jols fought his way out from under the mountain of blankets that he had buried himself under, propped himself up on one elbow and drained the cup that Dagonet put in his hand. He blinked blearily at Arthur's face as it hovered over Dagonet's shoulder and made worried noises.

"No, not lung fever, it's the same sickness that Galahad and Bors' had last week." Dagonet said reassuringly, as he lifted Jols' shoulders to allow Arthur to wedge several thick blankets behind.

"Does your chest hurt when you breathe?" Arthur asked.

Jols shook his head and winced as the hammering began anew. "No. Can't bread in by dose, I ache all over, 'specially my head an'-" Jols sneezed suddenly, mightily; his face a mask of intense pain as he wiped his chapped, reddened nose on the small scrap of cloth that Dagonet thoughtfully provided. "an' I have chills." He leaned back, tugged the blankets tight around his chin and closed his eyes.

"Not the lung fever, then." Arthur said, relief coloring his voice.

After a brief, assessing study of his commander's face, Dagonet refilled the cup, added something from a small pouch and handed it to Arthur. Arthur sniffed dubiously at the doctored wine and with a slight grimace, tossed it off in one long swallow. "Nothing escapes your notice, does it?"

Dagonet gave him a level look. "I don't need Tristran's long sight to see that cut on your forehead. You did wash it?"

"Vanora did."

"Good. Who was it this time?"

Arthur's expression was rueful. "Lancelot, Bors, Tristran and myself. Galahad went out the back with the serving girl."

"Girl-not the one that he and Lancelot have been snarling at one another over?"

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck as the two exchanged a significant glance. "The very one."

Dagonet returned a few moments later with an armload of firewood to find Arthur speaking quietly to Jols; he glanced up at Dagonet. "He insists that he is dying." The amusement that danced in his green eyes belied the gravity of his words as he sat back, elbows resting on his knees, callused hands hanging loosely. "He also swears that he will give you his firstborn son if you will make a potion to stop his bones from aching."

Dagonet finished stacking the firewood, rose to his feet and dusted his hands together. "I will, but I'll have to ride to the surgery first-and only if you keep your son, Jols. I'll make my own." He replied with easy humor.

"He's far too ill to be left alone, wouldn't you say?" A small smile flirted briefly with Arthur's lips, and Dagonet suppressed his amusement."Absolutely, Commander." He agreed gravely.

"Commander-I'll have no one to command before much longer." A short, derisive laugh drove the amusement from Arthur's eyes as he replied. "This is the worst winter that I can recall in many years; I am as weary of fighting in this never-ending cold and rain as the rest of you." His gaze drifted past Dagonet, to their last patrol and two more of his men, dead in the muddy hell of a bloody winter's skirmish; the third had died of his wounds within hours, despite Dagonet's frantic efforts to save him. He rubbed a weary hand over his face and felt Dagonet's hand on his shoulder, firm and comforting in empathy. "Perhaps I'll desert with the lot of you and save Valerius Corvus the trouble of flogging us for last night."

Dagonet chortled quietly at the absurdity and released his arm.

Arthur leaned back against the wall, eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he silently rearranged the day's schedule. "If you would, send Gilly to me when you get your horse, I want him to carry messages." Resolve settled firmly on his features. "And if you would, let the men know that I'll be unavailable for the rest of the day." He lifted an eyebrow at Dagonet. "Perhaps all of you had best make yourselves unavailable as well; I want to speak to Valerius privately before any of us are questioned."

A muffled voice came from under the mound of blankets on the bed and an arm struggled out. "Go to sleep, Jols." Arthur admonished, pushed the arm down and pulled the blankets over it. He added sternly, "That is a direct order."

Dawn had crept resignedly into the eastern sky; the sun, hidden behind a heavy layer of grey clouds had done little more than lighten the black of night to a pale, dreary mockery of day. Gawain cast a disgusted glance through the half open doors of the stable and noted that it was misting rain again- or perhaps it hadn't ceased since yesterday, or the day before that or even since what passed for last summer in this cursed sodden place. He leaned back against the stacked hay, half-heartedly sharpening his second favorite dagger and closed his eyes for a moment; he could almost feel the sun-warmed kiss of the spring winds that swept the plains of his homeland. He listened with half an ear as Galahad, frankly loafing, with feet propped up and hands clasped behind his head, detailed the events of the previous night.

"…so he called Lancelot a cheating whoreson and Lancelot smiled, stood up and kicked the table into him." Galahad paused as a face-splitting yawn overtook him. "The other one jumped backwards and knocked the serving girl-"

"The new one?" Gawain looked over with sudden interest. "The one with the lovely-" Hastily trapped laughter gurgled in his throat as Galahad shot him an angry glare. "Eyes." Gawain finished with a grin. "She has big, lovely brown eyes."

"Her eyes are blue." Galahad said roughly. "And I wasn't looking at her eyes just then, the swine knocked her into the fire- she screamed, Bors let loose a battle howl and Arthur-"

"Arthur was there?" Gawain interrupted with a grin, idly turning the forgotten dagger in one hand.

"Yes. He came through the door in time to break a chair over a Roman head. Lancelot broke the table when he kicked it into the other one's belly and Vanora broke a pitcher over Arthur's head." Galahad snickered at the memory of the most feared warrior in Britain, wine dripping from the end of his nose, sitting on the rude floor of the tavern shaking shards of broken clay from his hair.

"Arthur's head?" Gawain made no attempt to contain his shout of laughter and it rang out against the rafters, startling a pair of plump hens that had chosen high shelter from the rain. "How did she manage that? And which one blacked your eye?" Gawain asked, fending off stray feathers with one hand.

"She was aiming for Lancelot I think, Arthur got in her way. And I got this-" Galahad touched his swollen eye gingerly. "when I picked Elen up from the floor. She tripped over her skirts, cracked her forehead into my eye and fell right into my arms. That made her cry harder, so I took her out the back to get her away from the fighting and err- comfort her." He was grinning smugly, one scarred hand absently stroking the back of the lanky cat curled into the warmth of his hip. "You missed a good fight."

"Bedamned if I didn't." Gawain gave an exaggerated sigh of regret and glanced at the other man, blue eyes merry. "She was worth it, though." He gave the dagger a final flip and with a swift overhand motion, sent it blurring through the air to thud deeply into the massive wooden door frame, bare inches from Dagonet's face as he entered. The big man scarcely broke his stride, but withdrew the dagger and returned it to its owner as he passed. "My thanks, Dag. I really didn't want to get up just yet." Gawain called to Dagonet's back as he disappeared into a stall.

Dagonet hadn't troubled with a saddle, but merely thrown a worn blanket over the chestnut's back. "Where are the others?" He asked, as he led the stallion out of his stall. "And where's Gilly taken himself off to?"

"Bors has Gilly out in the roundpen working one of the yearlings; haven't seen Lancelot and Tristran since they left the tavern last night." Galahad replied, without opening his eyes. "Tristran's likely off sulking; he didn't get to kill anyone." He added maliciously.

Gawain slid an annoyed glance sideways at his secondmother's only son, and looked briefly skyward. "I saw them ride in just after daybreak. Tristran is with Bors and I heard Lancelot say something about the baths."

"Tell them that Arthur wants us gone for the day and send Gilly to Jols' quarters. Jols is ill and Arthur has errands for the boy."

Galahad opened one sleepy, disinterested eye to look at Dagonet. "What's wrong with Jols? And why does Arthur want us gone?"

"Jols has got the same sickness that you-" Dagonet nodded at Galahad "and Bors had last week." Dagonet swung his leg over and settled himself on the horse's back. "I'm told that you went out the back door with Lancelot's woman last night."

Galahad slid from the hay, shoulders braced, his chin lifted arrogantly. "What of it?" He demanded defiantly. "If Lancelot's more interested in brawling with Romans than watching out for his woman, he doesn't deserve her."

"Don't ruffle your feathers at me, young cockerel." Dagonet said, amusement tempering the warning in his deep voice. "I'm surprised that you found something that interests you more than brawling with Romans." Dagonet emphasized the repeated phrase slightly; his usually calm gaze troubled as it swept over the two younger men. "Last night was the third time this week that some or all of us, including Arthur, have fought with legionnaires." He explained patiently. "There's little chance that it will escape the Praefector's notice and a third offense merits a flogging." He touched his heels to the destrier's flanks and rode out into the frost-rimed morning, leaving the pair to argue and count on their fingers.

The creak of the door opening and the cold, clammy draft that slithered across his face roused Arthur from drowsy somnolence, he watched through half-closed eyes as the tall form entered and sauntered casually across the small room to peer down at the pile of blankets. The stentorious snuffling emanating from underneath gave lie to Jols' earlier insistence that death was imminent, a particularly loud snort caused him to wince slightly and retreat hastily to the far side of the small room.

"How does he breathe underneath that mountain of wool?" Lancelot marveled, as he hooked one booted foot around the leg of a chair and dragged it closer to Arthur and the small fire that crackled merrily.

"Much the same way you did, although not quite so loudly."

Lancelot settled himself in the leather chair, stretched long legs out, and sent Arthur a cool look. "I do not snore."

"You did when you had lung fever." Arthur paused thoughtfully, glanced curiously at his Second as the scent of soap and oil slid under his nose and scratched his own unshaven chin. "And when you are drunk."

Lancelot raised an eyebrow and glanced pointedly at the cut that arrowed from hairline to eyebrow down Arthur's forehead. "How's your head this morning?"

Arthur could not stop the amused grin that curved his lips. "Better than yours, I wager. I didn't lose a woman last night."

"Tcha." Lancelot flicked the fingers of one hand dismissively. "She's hardly more than a child and definitely not my woman. The chit's been mooning over the young fool for weeks; he's too thickheaded to notice." He returned Arthur's grin with one of his own. "I prefer my women a bit more…experienced."

Arthur's face was a study in stunned disbelief. "Will you be attending chapel with me this night?" he demanded. "That's as likely to happen as you giving a woman over to Galahad- the two of you drew steel on one another last month over that Lycian wench in Arbeia-"

"That wench in Arbeia was a whore, playing us against one another to up her price, we were too drunk to see it at the time." Lancelot retorted irritably. "Elen is scarcely sixteen and had a gentle upbringing before she was orphaned. She's no more suited for whoring than I am for sheepherding; with Galahad's protection she'll not be forced to it." He nudged a charred log farther into the fire with a booted toe, sending a shower of sparks shooting upward. "And he will treasure her all the more for having taken her from me." He added cynically.

Arthur's laughter rumbled in his chest like distant summer thunder as he fought to stifle it. "So these past weeks you …"

"I kept the wolves from the child, nothing more." Lancelot leaned his head back into clasped hands and closed his eyes, mouth twitching noticeably in the glow of the firelight. "I will, of course, slit your throat as you sleep if you repeat that to anyone."

"Come and try." Arthur fired back the customary invitation to his Second's long-standing threat as they gave in to mutual mirth.

Their laughter was silenced abruptly by a barrage of woodpecker-sharp raps on the door, it blew open to admit a whirlwind of mist, rain and bedraggled boy, whose muddy lower half attested to a fine disregard for mud puddles. He paused on the threshold, dripping, shut the door with a backwards kick and grinned cheekily at the two men "Tis fair damp this morning."

Lancelot pinned him with a sardonic eye. "It's raining buckets, imp. No, stay there, you're all over mud."

"Gilly. Was there a reply?" Arthur looked expectantly at the boy.

"Oh, aye- uh, yes Commander. I went straightaway to the Praefector's office and said that I was to wait for his answer." He had thrust a damp, grimy hand down the front of his woolen tunic as he spoke; with a grunt of triumph, he pulled a small, tight-tied scroll out and proffered it to Arthur.

Arthur covered the short distance between them in two long strides and accepted the scroll, surprisingly dry and still warm from the boy's body as he laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Well done, Gilly. Thank you."

Gilly grinned his delight at the Commander's praise, Arthur smiled back and gave him a gentle push towards the door. "That is all for today, I will send for you tomorrow if I need you."

"Yes, Commander." The child's reply floated back as he dashed out, once again slamming the door.

"Does Vanora know that you are training him as a page?" Lancelot asked.

"I assume that Bors has told her, it was his suggestion. He thinks it will keep the boy out of mischief. " Arthur replied absently as he unrolled the scroll and scanned its contents. "He's far more reliable than some I have known."

Lancelot ignored the jab, a not so subtle reminder of his own youthful defiance, and craned his neck, trying to look over Arthur's shoulder. "What does his Imperial High and Mighty, the praefector want with you now?"

"It is more what I want with him. He says that he will see me at any time this afternoon that I find the opportunity to present myself." Arthur frowned slightly. "Quite…accommodating of him." He rolled the scroll up and tossed it on the small table next to the chair as he seated himself.

"He's new. He'll show his true colors soon enough, just as the others have always done." Lancelot replied contemptuously. He shot a frowning, sidelong glance at Arthur. "What do you want with him that cannot wait until the next monthly meeting?"

"I want to speak with him about last night."

"Last night?" Lancelot asked warily. "What of it?"

Arthur gave him an exasperated look. "Lancelot, you can count. Last night was the third time-"

"You worry too much, Arthur." Lancelot waved a hand dismissively. "The watch was never called, so far as the praefector knows, nothing happened."

"The legionnaires-" Arthur began.

"Will not report it, they're too concerned with their own precious hides." Lancelot finished.

"You know them." Arthur's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Slightly. I have…had dealings with them in the past."

"Nevertheless, as your commander I am responsible for the actions of us all. I will speak to Valerius." Arthur's jaw had taken on the stubborn set that Lancelot knew all too well. Anger blazed through him, why could Arthur not, just once, leave well enough alone?

"You assume too much, _Commander_- we are knights, we will take responsibility for our own actions!"

Arthur's face might have been carved from stone but for the tightening of muscles along his jaw; he met Lancelot's furious eyes with his own hard, shrewd gaze. Something was amiss, the knowledge sat like a cold, hard stone in him; Lancelot's hasty, specious excuses the previous night as he left the tavern on Tristran's silent heels, a second visit to the baths in as many days and now this-"Lancelot. What would you say to me?"

Lancelot ignored the question, tension settled heavily around them until he loosed the breath he hadn't realized he held. "Arthur. Leave it be." He knew the words were wasted even as he spoke. "But if you must-on your head, then." His anger was gone, frustrated resignation bled through his voice.

Arthur's answer was forestalled by a mumbling groan from the sickbed as Jols' face, damp with perspiration, emerged from the blankets like a badger from its Jols struggled out from under the blankets, Arthur hurriedly dipped a cup of rich, steaming broth from the small kettle kept warm on the hearth, added the smaller cup of liquid that Dagonet had measured out earlier and put it in the sick man's hand. Jols took it with a hoarse murmur of thanks and sipped slowly, his gaze shifting to Lancelot then back to Arthur. After finishing the cup, he blew his nose noisily and lay back again.

"No, Dagonet hasn't returned yet but he shouldn't be much longer. Can I do anything for you?" Arthur replied to Jols' query.

"No- yeth, you can, Arthur."

"Of course, Jols."

"Go 'way. Take him with you." Jols waved an irritable hand towards Lancelot. "Juth leave me alone and let me die in peath!" Jols yanked the blankets back up to his chin and burrowed beneath them, muttering dire threats regarding nettles and shortdrawers. The two shamelessly took to their heels in hasty retreat; Arthur, pausing only long enough to snatch up his cloak, fled through the door in time to glimpse Lancelot's back as he vanished around the corner.

Outside, the sun had broken joyously through the clouds, its bright warmth bringing puffs of mist from wet, winter-cold buildings and streets churned to mud by feet and wagon wheels. The chestnut stallion picked his way through the muck as daintily as a girl wearing fine new shoes; he avoided debris, dogs and other assorted small bodies with equanimity. The hand on his reins, normally firm and reassuring, was unusually light, as if the man's thoughts were elsewhere. He snorted an ominous warning and danced a high, sideways step as a cart lumbered past, too noisily, too closely, and the hand on his reins tightened. Finally, a relatively calm side street, another and another, Dagonet reined to a halt outside Jols' quarters.

Inside was quiet; the fire had died down to a glowing bed of embers and Jols slept, if not silently, at least not as loudly as before. Dagonet busied himself with building the fire up, setting the kettle of broth closer to warm and turned to find Jols regarding him sleepily. "How long have you been back?"

"Not long." Dagonet laid a hand to Jols' forehead. "The fever is down, that's a good sign."

As Jols yawned mightily, Dagonet reached inside his shirt and brought out a small glass bottle. Pouring a cup of the warm broth, he added a small dose and handed it to Jols. "Four times a day, no more." He cautioned, as he set the bottle and a small pot on the table within easy reach. "That's a salve for your nose." He added.

Jols nodded gratefully, drank the cup off and sighed. "My thanks, Dagonet." He leaned back and yawned again. "Did you get your medicines while you were there? They should be ready, I thent a meth-messenger to Paulus two days ago."

"No, I didn't see Paulus."

A change in Dagonet's voice caused Jols to open his eyes and look closely at the other man. Was he? - Yes, he was definitely smiling.

"Then who-"A bell clanged in Jols' fever-addled brain and all unwilling, a smile took his face. "You met Drusilla."

"So I did." The smile was still there.

"Well." Jols coughed and cleared his throat noisily. "You should go back and get your medicines. Gods know when you might need them, with half of us sick and the other half fighting all night."

"Perhaps I'll do that, Jols." The smile was still there.

"Arthur is meeting with the praefector this afternoon; he'll not be back until late." Jols plowed on clumsily, his thoughts as thick and mired as the streets outside. "And I'm going to sleep the rest of the day."

"That's best for you right now." The smile was still there as Dagonet crossed the small room towards the door.

"If she's not at the surgery, she'll be on Market Street. A trader was to arrive this week…" Jols yawned tremendously and slid down under the blankets.

The smile was still on Dagonet's face as he replied. "Yes, she said something about that." He closed the door gently, but Jols was already asleep.

"Dag! Here!" There was no mistaking Bors' bellow of welcome and Dagonet shouldered his way towards him through the usual motley group gathered in the tavern, grateful that Marrec had at least opened the doors to allow the breeze to blow through. The chimney was drawing badly, as it usually did by winter's end and the smoke combined with the reek of spilled wine, unwashed bodies and other less savory odors was almost enough to turn even a strong man's stomach. He nodded towards the corner where Lancelot and Tristran lounged with a jug on the table between them and came to stand beside Bors.

"Here, Elen- sweet flower, give me another cup-" Bors was saying. The girl behind the serving counter rolled her eyes heavenward as she complied and smiled a shy greeting towards Dagonet before turning back to stacking dishes on the shelves.

"Yer sure that Arthur said here and not the Hall?" Without waiting for a reply, Bors handed Dagonet the cup and collected his jug and cup from the scarred, wooden counter. "Come, we'll wait with them." Bors swaggered across the room, bodies scattering from his path like a flock of startled birds, set the jug and cup on the table before Tristran and looked around. "We need more chairs." He rumbled, to no one in particular and chortled loudly as several tables in the immediate vicinity were hastily vacated.

Elen finished her task and turned to survey the crowded tavern; for a wonder, no one was shouting for her or pounding a table in order to catch her attention. She watched the flurry of movement in the far corner as Bors and Dagonet settled themselves with Lancelot and the other whose name she couldn't recall, the one whose amber eyes reminded her of the wolves' eyes that had ringed the night fires on the long, grueling flight north to the supposed safety of the Roman fortress. A slight frown puckered her brow as her gaze slid over Lancelot; she did not pretend to truly know him, even in the privacy of her own thoughts, but there seemed to be an air of tension about him, a cold wariness in his eyes that was not usually evident when he was accompanied by his fellow knights.A slight commotion at the door signaled the entrance of the two missing Sarmatians, and Elen did not try to hide the smile that lit her face as the dark-haired young man strode across the floor to her side, leaving Gawain to join the others without him.

"How's your arm tonight?" Galahad asked as his fingers brushed down the sleeve of her tunic, slightly bulked by the bandage underneath it.

"Oh, it's much better. The salve that Vanora gave me helped a great deal." Elen looked up at him through her lashes. "You were kind to think of asking her for it and I'm very grateful."

He gave her a brilliant smile that nearly stopped her heart and said "I'm glad you were not hurt any worse than that."

They smiled foolishly at one another for a moment and Elen touched a gentle finger to the purple bruise on his temple. "I'm terribly sorry about your eye. Does it hurt very much?"

"Not at all." He glanced out towards the table where his companions sat; a slight frown creased his forehead and the smile slid away from his face. Elen followed his gaze and reached up to lay her hand lightly on his arm.

"Galahad? Something is wrong, tell me."

Galahad felt a rush of warm pleasure at the concern that darkened her pretty eyes_. "It's no secret after all, most likely the entire fort knows by now." _Briefly he told her of the conversation with Dagonet in the stables and the conclusions he and Gawain had reached following it.

"That pair of-" Elen spat a barracks obscenity so foul that Galahad's jaw dropped and his eyes nearly popped from their sockets."They are at fault, not you and your friends! They threaten Marrec, they start brawls each time they come here and I know for certain that I'm not the only woman they have tried to-"The fury that blazed up in his blue eyes caught her unawares, disconcerted, she stopped mid-sentence as he caught her uninjured arm and shook her lightly.

"What?" he demanded harshly. "What did they try to do to you?"

She met his gaze squarely, although trepidation skittered through her eyes. "It was several weeks ago, when I had just come here. I had gone out the back after closing to dump the water from the dish basin and they caught me alone. If Lancelot had not happened to hear -" she swallowed audibly. "Well, it would have gone very badly for me."

"Elen, ye've work to do." Marrec's voice, firm but not unkind, startled them both as he set two brimming pitchers on the counter. "And yer friends are wantin' ye, young man."

Galahad shot a quick glance towards the corner. "Arthur's here." He scowled at nothing in particular and the world in general, shook Elen's arm gently. "Don't leave tonight; I'll walk with you after close." He took a step away and then spun on his heel to stare at her for a fleeting second, caught her shoulders and kissed her, just long enough to make her knees buckle and her head swim. Then, grinning brashly, he disappeared across the crowded room.

Tristran watched, hugely amused, as Galahad scowled at Lancelot from across the room and answered Lancelot's knowing smirk with a rare, fleeting smile of his own.

"Glad that you refused my wager last night?" Lancelot spoke quietly as he leaned over to pour himself more wine.

"A fool's wager." Tristran's face was bland as milk. "He's predictable." He shrugged, a faint movement of one shoulder. "We all are." His eyes moved deliberately towards Arthur as he made his way to the table, then back to Lancelot. "In one way or another."

Lancelot tilted his cup towards his companion in silent accord and turned his attention back to the table where Bors was extolling the virtues of the yearling he had been working with to an intently listening Gawain, and Dagonet, who was listening not at all; he fell silent and all attention focused on Arthur as he joined them.

Arthur seated himself across the table from his Second, rather than his customary place at Lancelot's side, and surveyed the men ranged around him. Not for the first time, he saw them not as friends, not as men under his command, but as scions of a conquered nation, with ancient traditions and a code of honor sometimes still as inexplicable to him as the customs and laws of Rome were to them._"Merciful God, I am weary_. _If I am not fighting_ _Rome for my men, I am fighting my men for Rome. And I cannot win one without losing the other." _

"I met with Valerius Corvus this afternoon." He stated flatly. "There will be no reprimands, no repercussions from last night." He paused briefly, his hard green gaze sweeping over them. "The legionnaires involved have apparently deserted." He held up a hand to silence the onslaught of questions that came from all directions and continued. "They did not appear for morning muster and two horses are missing from the Auxiliary's stables." He flicked a glance downwards towards his hands as he laid them flat on the table, purposely paying no heed to the swift glance exchanged between Lancelot and Tristran.

"Valerius tells me that they have long-standing reputations as thieves and troublemakers. He assured me that if they are captured, there are sufficient complaints from their centurion to prosecute them without involving us." Arthur looked deliberately from Lancelot to Tristran. "He also said that as soldiers, they were a disgrace to the Empire and had rendered their greatest service to Rome by leaving her."

The relief around the table was almost palpable; Gawain, Galahad and Bors began speaking at once, their voices spiraling around one another to add to the general clamor of the tavern. Dagonet drained his cup, spoke quietly to Arthur and rose to leave; he lifted a hand briefly in response to Bors' shout of inquiry and disappeared out the door.

"Where's he off to?" inquired a disgruntled Bors, as he followed Dagonet's lead, emptied his cup and stood. "I'm going home." He muttered. "I get in another fight, Vanora'll make me wish I was only flogged."

"It's not like Dagonet to leave so early." Gawain commented idly, as he watched Bors follow Dagonet out into the night. "I wonder where he's off to in such a hurry."

"Maybe he's got a woman." Galahad said carelessly, unconcerned with anything but Elen's trim figure as she made her way around the tables, pitcher in hand.

Gawain's eyes brightened speculatively. "Now there's a thought. He should, it's been three years since Muira died." He shook his head. "It's not healthy for a man to go so long without a woman."

"You don't think it's healthy to go without a woman for three days." Galahad scoffed.

"Jealous, are you?" Gawain chuckled.

"No, I'm selective-and I like a woman to call me by the right name." Galahad retorted as he shoved his chair back. "I'm going to speak to Elen."

Gawain finished his wine in one long swallow. "And I am going to see to my continued good health." He grinned broadly at the three remaining knights and sauntered away.

Arthur returned Lancelot's steady, expectant gaze with what he devoutly prayed was a calm, non-judgmental look of his own. "The legionnaires-they were the wolves that you spoke of." He said, nodding briefly towards the smiling, wheaten-haired girl refilling cups at the next table.

Lancelot inclined his head slightly.

Arthur chose his next words carefully. "Did the girl not lodge a complaint? The law is clear on such matters and her word added to the other complaints might have hastened disciplinary action against them."

Lancelot shook his head. "The word of a tavern wench against that of not one, but two legionnaires? Her words, Arthur, not mine." The memory of Elen's stubborn refusal, choked through angry tears and torn, bleeding lips still made his gut twist with rage. "The law seldom runs equally, as you well know."

"It is our purpose and our obligation, as knights, to see that it does." Arthur gritted harshly, his hand clenched, white-knuckled around his untouched cup.

"Justice and Rome's law are not the same, Arthur!" Lancelot's fist slammed down, rattling the crockery against the table.

"Speak up; they might not've heard you on the north side of the Wall." Tristran warned drily, as he swept a wary eye over the room.

Lancelot shot him an irate look, but reached for calm and lowered his voice."Have you not said that our _charge_ is to protect the innocent, and those that cannot protect themselves? We have done so; will you condemn us for it?"

Arthur gave his Second a long, appraising stare. "You have never cared overmuch for such duty, Lancelot." He said with frank skepticism. "Are you fond of the girl, after all?"

The flat, black look he received both answered his question and warned him off the subject, while a low, throaty rumble, the closest he ever allowed himself to laughter, came from Tristran. Lancelot transferred his black stare to the scout and spoke harshly in Sarmatian. Tristran never wavered from his habitual mask of calm as he replied brusquely in the same language. Finally, Lancelot gave a curt nod and Tristran switched to Latin as he addressed Arthur. "We were thirty when we came to the Wall, fourteen years ago. Now we are six."

"Most of us died honorably in battle, discharging our duty to Rome." Lancelot's voice matched the black flatness of his eyes. "Four of us died of flogging and some still carry the scars of a whip."

Tristran's eyes glittered coldly yellow in the wavering glow of torchlight. "Did you think that we would stand idly by, to see you flogged and dishonored, perhaps dead?"

The words struck Arthur like a blow, the blood drained from his face leaving it a pasty white, a small muscle in his jaw moved jerkily and was still.

"Arthur." Lancelot's voice was curiously empty, devoid of its usual anger. "Did you think that only in battle we would guard your back?"

Arthur's face was drawn, the lines around his eyes and mouth etched in deep shadow as he replied. "So the two of you …persuaded them to seek their fortunes elsewhere."

Lancelot hesitated for a moment and inclined his head slightly."As you say."

"As good a way as any to say it." Tristran muttered under his breath.

After a long silence, some of Arthur's natural color returned and his face hardened. "And in doing so, you have rendered yet another service to a grateful Empire." An uncharacteristic bitterness seasoned his voice; he glanced down at the cup in his hand as if just realizing that it was there, lifted it and drank deeply. "Although it would be best not to mention that to Valerius next week when he accompanies us on patrol." He added, almost as an afterthought.

Tristran had been scrutinizing the bottom of his wine cup as if convinced some great truth lurked in its depths, his head jerked up at Arthur's statement and Lancelot choked on a mouthful of wine. "What?" He sputtered.

"At his request, Valerius will accompany us when we next ride out on patrol. I can hardly refuse him, Lancelot, he _is_ the Praefector."Arthur defended himself mildly.

"Find a way!" Disbelief, incredulity and indignation marched across Lancelot's features, while Tristran's eyes lit with unholy glee. "Never know what might happen on patrol." He commented in his quiet, detached way.

"Precisely why I am charging the two of you personally, with guarding the Praefector's safety." Arthur felt a small prickle of guilt for his satisfaction at the outrage stamped across Lancelot's face and quashed it ruthlessly. "I have complete faith that you will protect him as diligently as you have me." He rose to leave, settling his cloak against a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with winter.

Lancelot cast a wily, sidelong look at Tristran. "Three days."

Tristran tilted his head, considering.

"My new saddle against your silver-hilted dagger, we'll be dragging him back within three days." Lancelot coaxed the thoughtful scout.

Arthur almost smiled. "I think you will find Valerius a surprising change from Quintus." As he turned to leave, Tristran's voice came to him, low and soft under the general hubbub. "What odds that he's dead?"

Tristran had left Lancelot, thoroughly mellowed with wine and wagers, in Marrec's congenial company. The old soldier had served under Arthur's father and his tavern had been a favorite haunt of knights long before Arthur had assumed command. Marrec's ingrained predilection to collect and pass on useful information kept him high in the Sarmatians' regard and Tristran had no doubt that by closing, Lancelot would know everything that fort gossip had to say concerning the newly arrived Praefector. The man was an arrogant fool, to thrust himself into their midst and trust the enemy at his back, but as Tristran had learned early, to underestimate an adversary is to hand him victory uncontested. He had made that mistake, once. Only once, he would not do so again. He ghosted silently through the streets, trailed only by his shadow to his quarters, spare and austere but for the heavy, forest-colored rugs that hid the stone walls. He lay for a time on a heavy pelt before the fire, listened as the wind sang hollow accompaniment to the tales painted blood red against the walls by flame and memory. Finally, stillness seeped warmly into bone and muscle, his eyes grew heavy. As he stripped his tunic over his head and prepared to sleep in rare comfort, there were none but shadows to see the thin, ridged scars that striped his back, reflecting bone-white in the smoldering firelight.

**Coda**_** (earlier that day)**_

"That," The woman said "is a very large horse." She stopped so abruptly that Dagonet put a steadying arm around her shoulders, looking down he could see her eyes widen with consternation above the sharp slant of her nose and cheekbone.

The chestnut stallion nickered, then lipped gently at the tentative hand she offered while Dagonet made a sound in the back of his throat that might have been laughter. "Probably seems so, since you've got no more size to you than a mouse."

"A mouse." Her mouth shaped the words with no sound as she cast a look of pained dignity over her shoulder. "We cannot all be-_eeep_!"

The exclamation startled from her as Dagonet set his hands around her waist and in a flurry of wind-whipped skirts, lifted her easily to the horse's back. He mounted quickly behind her, gathered the reins in one hand and wrapped a strong arm around her waist.

"Giants." Drusilla finished with breathless asperity as she hastily tugged and fumbled to rearrange her heavy skirts. "We cannot all be giants such as you; the world would crumble from the weight!"

"Stop wriggling, woman-you'll be headfirst in the mud." Dagonet ordered, a smile in his voice.

She shifted her weight deliberately, and Dagonet tightened his arm around her ribs, eliciting a muffled, decidedly undignified _ermph_. "You squeak like a mouse. Market Street first, or the patient you spoke of?"

The hours passed far too quickly for Drusilla's liking. The roughly dressed man with his big, gentle hands had surprised her nearly speechless that morning, appearing so suddenly before her in Paulus' office, even more surprising was the laughter he drew from her and the warmth that spread through her bones like summer sunshine at his smile. She had been secretly delighted at his swift return to the surgery, even more so when she realized his intent to accompany her throughout the afternoon.

He followed her silently through the back entrance of the small inn into the kitchen, where the inn-keeper's wife received pots of ointment from Drusilla with voluble thanks. The plump-cheeked woman exclaimed over Drusilla's cold hands, and offered cups of hot, mulled ale; Drusilla glanced at Dagonet and tried to refuse, saying that time was short, but he draped his cloak around her shoulders and smiled down at her. "We've got time for you to warm your hands."

He led her to a sturdy oaken bench near the fire and settled her beside him, his broad hands chafed warmth into her smaller ones, warmth that seemed to seep directly into her heart. Time slowed, seemed to cease altogether as they drank and talked quietly, their faces close together while the bustle and clamor of the busy little kitchen eddied around them. Dagonet found, to his acute astonishment, that words came easily to him in the company of this small woman whose laughter bubbled bright as a meadow stream and whose tart, mocking rejoinders could not conceal the kindness in her heart and eyes. Finally, reluctantly, Dagonet brought them back to the afternoon. "We should look for your trader; you'll need to get back to the surgery soon."

Market Street was noisy with local craftsmen and merchants, but the season was too young for any but the most intrepid of traders to venture north; a quick search soon proved that the trader Drusilla sought was not among them.

"No matter, I suspect he will be along in another week or two." Drusilla said. "I also suspect-" she arched an inquiring brow. "That you have far more important things to attend to than a prattling woman."

Dagonet smiled down at her. "No." he replied, quite seriously. I haven't got anything more important to do right now than listen to you prattle."

Drusilla snorted in self-derision. "Then you are either extremely bored or a very great fool."

"I'm neither bored, nor a fool, what's the third choice?"

She tilted her head to meet his sea blue eyes and the quiet, honest emotion in them slid through her like a sword. The noisy bustle of the crowd receded, she answered as silently as he had asked, and when she finally spoke, her voice was light, without its usual acerbic undercurrents. "If you like, we might return to the surgery. I will show you the horrendous mess that has been made of the herb garden and I will prattle more of how I intend to repair it."

"I'll listen very closely and pretend great interest." He assured her with mock solemnity and was rewarded with a ripple of laughter.

He had set his hands at her waist to lift her to Battlehammer's broad back when a man's choleric, incoherent shout rang out, and was quickly drowned under the clatter of hooves, pell-mell on cobblestones. A group of riders, cloaks thrown askew by the exuberant wind of their passage bore down from the Via Quintana; dogs, wandering poultry and humanity scattered with equal abandon. As the distance closed between them, Drusilla's body stiffened under his hands, Dagonet heard the sharp hiss of breath between her teeth and he glanced down to find her watching the approaching riders. Shock darted across her face, followed by a glimpse of what was surely cold, vicious rage, so quickly masked that he might never have seen it at all.

"Dagonet!"Dagonet looked up towards the hail, surprise arrowed through him as Arthur reined his horse in beside the lead rider, conferred with him briefly, then together they shouldered their mounts through the milling press of legionnaires and dismounted to join them. The stranger in Arthur's company was near to a height with Dagonet, his shoulders nearly as broad, with an aura of command about him as unmistakable as the red cloak of Rome flung about his shoulders.

"Valerius, I would present to you my knight, Dagonet of Sarmatia; Dagonet, Valerius Corvus, the new Praefector."

"Well met, Dagonet. I look forward to meeting the others of your troop."

Dagonet returned the Praefector's nod of acknowledgement as Arthur continued. "Valerius has had no opportunity before today to inspect the fort. You are, of course, welcome to join us-" Arthur nodded courteously towards Drusilla.

"Only a fool would trade the lady's company for ours, Arthur." Valerius broke in pleasantly. The gleam in his crow black eyes as he appraised Drusilla kindled a green fire in Dagonet's belly, his eyes narrowed and his hands on Drusilla's shoulders tightened imperceptibly.

"I thank you, but I'm no fool."

"We will leave you to your day, then." Arthur said. "I will see you tonight at the tavern, after the dinner hour." His intent gaze made his meaning clear and Dagonet nodded."We'll see you then."

He waited for the commotion of their departure to ebb and gently turned Drusilla to face him. "You know him." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, I know him." Her face was carefully composed, emotionless; Dagonet waited patiently for her to continue. "He commanded a troop of Sarmatian knights at Lugdunum, in Gaul, when my husband was posted there." She gave him a small smile. "His loyalty to his men is almost as legendary as Arthur's; I have no doubt that he will show great favor to your troop as well."

Dagonet watched for a moment as her eyes hid secrets, then lifted her to Battlehammer's back and settled himself behind her, pulling her close. "We'll find a quiet place to sit and you'll tell me what he did, that you hate him so."

The familiar weight of despair pressed her head back against the wide, solid warmth of his chest and she closed her eyes against the sting of tears. "As you wish." She said softly. _Yes, I will tell you. I will tell you the first of what will undoubtedly be many, many lies, for you would never believe the truth. _

.


End file.
